Have you heard my women?

They are singing to themselves.

They owe no one a single note.

If you hear their song, it is

because you pry.

Have you seen my women?

They are swinging their hips

alone. They owe no one a

single swaying bone

if you watch them dance, it is

because you spy.

Have you touched my women?

They are holding themselves.

They owe no one a single stroke.

If you touch my women,


My women are more than

a sweet song, a sight, a touch.

How soft your mind has made us!

I am a human incubator stretching

to house the world’s breath.

I am loud and I am soft

but I am also rough, a stone orchid

blooming in the blazing sun.

I am cooling lava. I am birthing terra.

Watch me solidify.

My women, we are seed and soil.

My women, we are rain.

My women, we are fire,

the blood pumping through the vein

of the earth.

The book of Life is written

in our parting skin,

 our spreading hips and rolling hills.

If you breathe, if you live, if you love, it is

because of her.

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